Lady Luck
by chibikaty
Summary: Mozzie wins the lottery. Too bad a variety of circumstances and his own paranoia keep him from collecting it. But hey, he did win fair and square, so it is completely not illegal for Neal to help him and really nothing for Peter to worry about…


**Lady Luck**

Summary: Mozzie wins the lottery. Too bad a variety of circumstances (and his own paranoia) keep him from collecting it. But hey, he did win fair and square, so it is completely not illegal for Neal to help him and really nothing for Peter to worry about…

* * *

Disclaimer: Free spirits like Mozzie and Neal Caffrey can't be owned.

* * *

Author's note: This was written before the last episode of the last season, so we're assuming Mozzie didn't manage to save any of the U-boat treasure.

* * *

The reason why Mozzie brought a lottery ticket was, obviously, part of a con.

Mozzie did not believe in lottery tickets, because he intended to become a millionaire by his own hard work and talents—doing it without risking jail just wouldn't feel right. Also, everyone knew that managers secretly funneled winning tickets to their fellow Free Masons (the secret cult, not that fake exposed one).

However, the expert forger who Mozzie was meeting was a gambling fanatic, and would prefer payment in lottery tickets to untraceable cash. As far as Mozzie was concerned, that just saved him the trouble of inspecting bills for markings. He stopped by a ticket-selling drugstore and entered the number of Free Mason lodges in New York as his lucky number.

However, that very morning Mozzie's contact had a lucky streak at the casinos and brought himself a drunken plane ticket to Las Vegas, leaving Mozzie with no brand-new passport and a useless lottery ticket.

Mozzie did not even bother to check the winning lottery numbers. He didn't care. He was cheerfully pruning a Bonsai plant in peace when his number sailed across a million television screens reading "Super Jackpot."

And it might have ended there. About 2 percent of all lottery tickets go unclaimed every year.

However, fate had other ideas, because the very next day:

"Mozzie, did you know that yesterday the winning lottery ticket number was the same as the one you told me was the number of Free Mason lodges in New York?" Neal chortled. "Got any theories about that? Surely a little too obvious to be the Free Masons themselves, don't you think?

Mozzie looked up from the painting he was helping Neil bake into old age—just so it would look nice on the wall, not for a con. This time. "What? Are you sure it was that exact number?"

"Yeah, I've heard it often enough from you to remember it."

"What?"

"Ticket is still unclaimed. So, conspiracy, secret code, red herring?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Neil, I'm rich."

Neil looked around his room. While a nice enough room it was still lacking in expensive painting and fancy wine, and frankly even the clothes on his back had been a gift from June. "Well, we're both rich in friends and happiness, I like to think."

"I just won the lottery!" Mozzie barely resisted the urge to jump in to the air. Then, cold realization struck. "And I can never claim it. Why does God hate small private Caribbean Islands so much?"

Neal said, "Would you mind updating me on a few points here? You lost me at 'what.'"

It took a few minutes for Mozzie to explain to Neil the situation. "So you won the lottery. Can I touch the ticket? No, more importantly, why can't you claim it? Did you use a fake ID? So what! I can forge you good enough papers to let you collect your winnings. The wrong picture, we can do something about that—I know a guy who's great with disguises. You can't just let this slip away!"

"I have no choice. Neil, do you know what they do with lottery winners? Their lives become media circuses! They have their faces on TV screens across the country! They take your fingerprints and your DNA! I'd need a Social Security number and a driver's license—I'd become part of the system!"

It was on the tip of Neil's tongue to say, "So? You'd be a millionaire!" But he knew Mozzie better than that. All he could say was, "That's rough, Mozzie. I'm sorry."

Mozzie sadly patted the Hawaiian doll in his pocket. "Some things just aren't meant to be. I'm starting to think that my tropical island is one of them."

* * *

And once again, that could have been the end of that. Not for millions would Mozzie have let anyone give him a Social Security number.

However, it so happened that same day, a very clumsy crook names Alfred Wincock tried to pull off a con, and like most dumb crooks, was caught.*

And while many such incidents go unnoticed, this one was picked up by a local radio station, who thought it was silly enough to be entertaining. After all, the secret to a good human interest story was finding a topic people were interested in, and everyone loved the lottery.

_*The implication that stupid criminals are always caught should not be taken to impugn the honor of one Neal Caffrey, who everyone knows is an extremely gifted, intelligent, and good-looking crook, and was only caught because he let himself be. Anything said otherwise by one Peter Burke, FBI, should be ignored as jealousy._

* * *

The reporter's voice droned, "And Alfred Wincock claimed to have lost his lottery ticket, using a false driver's license saying he was Eric Collins. However, when buying a soda at the vending machine in front of the office, he opened up his wallet with his real driver's license inside, and alas for him a security camera caught it on film. But alls' well that ends well, because the publicity from this story lead to the real Eric Collins learning about his winning lottery ticket from the resulting media coverage. Always happy to help, PBS news."

Neal switched off the TV, and said into his cell phone, "Okay, I watched it Mozzie, now what?"

"Neil, don't you get it? We can do what that guy did, only without the gross incompetence that was a disgrace to gentlemen conmen everywhere! We can steal my lottery winnings!"

It figured Mozzie would be much more enthusiastic about this now he thought he could turn it into a con. Neal frowned. "But they'll be on-guard, after that just happened. And there will be even more media attention focused on the lottery."

"Like we haven't pulled off more dangerous cons before?"

"Look, Mozzie, it's still possible for you to claim your winnings the normal way. A decent lawyer could get around the fake ID. There's precedent—I think some guy in the 80s filled out a lottery ticket as 'Big Bird' and was still able to claim it when he won. Then you can use the money to run away. You can get out of the country and have plastic surgery so no one will recognize your face."

"That's not the problem, Neal." Mozzie lowered his voice. "I made a huge blunder. I filled out the ticket in my real name! It was a moment's carelessness!"

"Then the problem is-"

"My real name! With my real face! On TV!"

Even from over the phone, Neal could hear Mozzie break out into a cold sweat. He sighed. "You know, I'm trying to go straight. To put my old life behind me. My parole hearing is in just two weeks, and I think possibly I'm wearing Sarah down about going out to dinner with me."

"Please, Neal, I think this is it! My big score! My last con! If I let it slip away twice, I'll never forgive myself!"

Twice. Neal felt a twinge of guilt. Mozzie had been the one hit hardest by the loss of the u-boat treasure—unlike Neal, who had walked away voluntarily. The con of a lifetime had been Mozzie's dream since he was a ten-year-old in foster care. The U-boat treasure had been the realization of that dream. And Mozzie had gotten away with it, had taken the treasure and been completely in the clear.

But he'd come back. He'd thrown away a hundred million dollar fortune to save Elizabeth. He hadn't so much as flinched or hesitated when they'd decided it would be necessary to sacrifice the treasure. From that point on, he hadn't considered the money at all. And no one had ever thanked him for it or acknowledged what a selfless thing he'd done.

Peter had never thanked Mozzie for coming back to save his wife at the price of $100 million, but this wasn't surprising since Peter felt the whole mess was Mozzie and Neal's fault to begin with. As FBI, it would have been his duty to keep them from getting away with the treasure to begin with. Simply not turning them in was a huge sign of gratitude from Peter. But Neal, he should have thanked Mozzie.

Now that he was thinking about it, he also should have apologized. Mozzie hadn't _had_ to cut him in on the treasure when he first stole it, but he did. And it had been Neal's hesitations that had delayed them from leaving New York. For that matter, it was probably because of his grudge against Neal that Keller investigated them and found out about their score; certainly it was because of her connection to Neal that Keller had targeted Elizabeth. Mozzie might have gotten away with the treasure cleanly if he hadn't decided to share it with his best friend.

There was only one way Neal could show that their friendship meant just as much to him as it did to Mozzie. "Then let's do this. One last con, you and me together."

"Yes! Thank you, Neal. I can't pull this one off alone. And don't worry—this time everything is going to go according to plan."*

_*This might seem like a very ironic thing to say. But Mozzie believed that by tempting fate he could ensure that absolutely nothing happened, ironically._

* * *

Peter had become an expert in Neal's habits, during his time chasing him as a suspect and while investigating Neal's various questionable activities as his CI, to the point where a less amazing woman than Elizabeth might have become a little suspicious of her husband. He knew Neal's favorite food, his favorite color, his favorite shoe to put on first in the morning. He could tell that right now, from the way he was twisting the brim of his hat, Neal was excited by a new challenge.

The problem was, the most exciting case the white collar crime division had this week was a rich brat pressing them to investigate whether his father's new girlfriend was a scam artist. In fact, she was merely a gold digger, and that ex-marriage she was hiding was really none of the FBI's concern. What had Neal so worked up must come from…outside of work. Not a good sign.

On the other hand, Peter couldn't quite believe that less than 72 hours after looking him in the eye and telling him that he had chosen his life in NY over a priceless art fortune, Neal was now planning a new con. To be honest, suspecting Neal even made Peter feel a little guilty. Probably Neal was just helping June with some knotty problem. Using methods that might not be on the right side of the law. But overall on the side of the angels.

But if Peter didn't find out what was going on _for sure_, then this was going to drive him crazy all week. He just had to find a way to subtly ask Neal, without appearing to accuse him of anything. Be an interested friend, not a federal agent.

Walking over to Neal's desk, he cleared his throat. "Neal? If June is having any trouble, perhaps I can help too."

"What? June?" Neal said blankly.

Peter's heart sunk. If it wasn't June then it was probably Mozzie, and if it was Mozzie then it was definitely illegal. Unless… "Did Sarah come by with another case she needs help on? Or an unofficial request?"

Neal said, "Judging by how happy you seem at that prospect, should I assume you're trying to set us up again? Look, Peter, Sarah and I will work it out on our own, or we won't. We haven't happened to see each other recently."

"Because she's blocking your calls?"

"How did you know that?"

"Well, Elizabeth still talks to Sarah, and she said-"

"Can we move on to a less awkward topic, please?"

"Right. We were talking about the problem you're trying to solve," Peter said.

"No, we weren't. You think I have…wait, you suspect me of plotting behind your back? _Already_?"

Peter could practically feel Elizabeth whack him over the head as she shouted, "Subtlety! Whatever happened to subtlety?"

"It's not like that, exactly," he tried to explain. "I know the look on your face when you're thinking very hard about something."

Neal was not appeased. "Yes, just like you knew I was guilty that last time, even before I technically _was _guilty!"*

Neal must be genuinely upset to be bringing up the u-boat incident in public, albeit indirectly. And Peter was forced to admit that if he'd believed that Neal had stolen the treasure before Neal even knew it hadn't been burned to bits in the warehouse, then perhaps his Neal-radar wasn't 100%. Perhaps he deserved the benefit of the doubt. But… "Fine, Neal, I won't intrude in your business. Just promise me that this _isn't_ the FBI's business, okay? That you aren't doing anything that will have someone else in here asking me about their stolen property."

That made Neal hesitate. He really hadn't wanted to start this again, these lies and half-truths around Peter. That game had never worked out very well for him in the past either. Then a loophole occurred to him. The lottery winnings did in fact belong to Mozzie, fair and square, and therefore helping him claim them could not be theft. Neal smiled broadly. "Peter, I give you my solemn word that I am not stealing anything."

"You sound very…happy…about that."

"Yes. Yes I am. It feels great to be able to tell you the truth with complete and utter honesty."

"Well, I'm glad that the honest life feels so great to you."

"It does," Neal assured him. In fact, being honest was a wonderfully euphoric feeling. Was this how other people felt _all the time_? No wonder they managed to resist their urges to become criminals.

It seemed like a great opportunity to give Peter a hug, so he did.

Neal left with his bad feelings completely assuaged. That made one of them.

_*This referred to the incident where Peter had accused Neal of making off with the U-boat treasure back when Neal still had no idea what Mozzie had done. When Mozzie had first shown Neal what he had stolen, the con-man's second thought** had been irritation that Peter was going to think that he had been right._

_**His first thought had been worry that Peter was going to be disappointed in him, but he'd repressed the hell out of that one._

* * *

Neal placed the magnifying glass back in its case. "The ID is flawless. Where'd you get the social security number?"

Mozzie said, "This sweet old lady sold it to me. She's hitting 93 and her retirement money ran out."

"Too bad for her."

"Yeah, if she'd just married one more husband…"

"This would explain why the photo in your driver's license is of you in a grey wig and a purple hat."

"We've pulled off stranger disguises, haven't we?"

"Your paranoia about anyone recognizing you is a tad extreme. Even so, believe it or not, that isn't even the part of this plan that worries me the most."

Mozzie pointed. "Back-up plan number seven is falling off the wall."

Neal stuck the post-it back on again. "Hand me some tape. Though we could just trash this one, I don't think 'someone else tries the same con' was a very likely scenario anyway."

There was a knock on the door. June called, "I have snacks. Is the room decent?"

"You can come in. All our notes are in code," Mozzie said. "Too many Suits think they can drop in uninvited here. Not to mention ex-girlfriends."

"I think 'ex' is a little premature at this point," Neal said. "I finally got her to admit that I was not the worst criminal she'd ever dated yesterday. That guy who actually killed someone was much worse."

June entered, carrying a plate of shrimp with dip. She glanced around the room. "My, where did you get that grappling hook from, Neal?"

"Garage sale. It's amazing what you can find at those."

Mozzie said, "And they always take cash, no paper trail."

June said, "I hope you plan to test it out first. Byron had a nasty fall from one of those once, broke his arm. That was the day we first met.* Ah, and I see you're turning a cell phone into an electronic lock pick as well. Is this why Peter came by to ask me if I thought that the stress of your parole hearing might be getting to you?"

Neal looked surprised. "What?"

"And he also wanted to know if I'd ever had the slightest hint of you abusing mood-altering substances."

Neal frowned. "Why would he be asking questions? Wasn't I completely honest with him?"

"Being innocent cuts you little slack with the Feds," Mozzie said wisely.

Neal discovered another new feeling—that it felt even worse to be distrusted when you were telling the truth.**

_*June and Byron had first met on a dark and stormy night. He was a teenage kid sneaking over a fence to t-p his math teacher. She was running a con on a violent pimp who had abused her friend's cousin. He crash-landed on the Doberman she had rented from a security firm. It was love at first sight._

_**We're using a very loose definition of the truth here, folks._

* * *

Time—2:00 AM

Neal rappelled up the side of a building, counting on his dark suit to keep him hidden. He had a window-washer's ID he could use just in case, as long as he wasn't caught actually entered the window, which would be awkward.

The lock on the window was laughably simple. But then, this was no bank, just an office. He pulled the five-second disable and was inside with the ten-second squirm.

Inside was a desk with a computer. He stuck in a flash drive and turned it on. As it hit the password screen, the random generating password breaker took over. While waiting, Neal re-routed the press phone to call a different phone number.

Once he was inside the computer, he pulled open the file and began some creative editing. He also pulled up a building schematic, and located the record room.

When he approached the card-swiper, he held up his cell phone and the lock clicked green.

In a small dark room he changed his clothes in between some creative improvements to certain paper records.

At 4:30 AM Neal strolled out the front door, looking for all the world like a very early rising office worker.

* * *

Time—5:00 AM

Neal stepped off the bus, rounded a corner, and walked straight into Jones and Diana.

Diana started. "Neal? What brings you up and about at this hour?"

"Running away from home, judging by the size of his backpack," Jones said.

"Hilarious. I'll have you know that fishing is a very timely sport. Early morning is not only the best time to catch fish, you also avoid the amateurs."

"You fish as a hobby? Not too boring for you?" Diana exclaimed in disbelief.

Neal said, "It's not a hobby, it's a sport."

"Right on. I love fishing. Don't get to do it much these days, but I still keep in my practice. Fist bump?" Jones offered his hand.

"Fist bump," Neal agreed. "But what brings you out here at this ungodly hour of the morning?"

"City doesn't sleep, neither does crime, neither does the FBI," Jones said.

Diana said, "We got a tip that some guy is bringing in a truckload of guns from out-of-state. Nothing illegal about that since the courts struck down the most recent gun control law, but FBI knows damn well anyone carting around that many identical guns is planning on selling. Probably to people who can't buy at a gun store because they don't pass a criminal background check. As I said, the vice section can't do anything about it, but we managed to trump up something about a possible fake identity that we're using to watch him for when he does commit a crime."

"Our guy's the one in the pinstripe suit." Jones was too professional to point, and Neal too smart to look. "We just need to figure out who his buyer is."

Neal said, "If I were you two, I'd keep a close eye on the guy with the bird-watching binoculars. He's spent the past five minutes watching pigeons."

"Thanks for the tip." Jones grinned. "Did you catch anything?"

Neal gave him a lofty look. "I never leave without catching something, and I always throw it back. Do I look like someone who would gut a fish?"*

"Alright then, mister sportsman, I hope you'll be awake at the office today."

"It's a Sunday, Diana."

She sighed. "I'd forgotten. At least I'm getting paid for this overtime, unlike the usual extracurricular Peter gives me."

"You're the one still on parole. Why aren't you watching the ugly guy, while I'm fishing?" Jones asked Neal.

Neal said, "The ugly guy is making eye contact with our friendly neighborhood birdwatcher."

Diana and Jones turned the professionalism back on, while Neal strolled away.

_*It is worth noting that Neal Caffrey has still not yet told a single lie (technically). It is worth noting because he is very proud of this._

* * *

Time—6:00 AM

Neal handed Mozzie a small folder. "Here's the building schematic. Remember, we have a very brief window. Especially if we're going to pull this off without anyone noticing. Your end is done?"

"Everyone is onboard. Catch some sleep before the show time," Mozzie advised. "You can crash in my back room, if you want. I have a spare futon."

Neal was about to comply when a nasty thought occurred to him. "Mozzie, what about taxes?"

"What about them?"

"Well, it's just…I promised Peter I wasn't stealing anything. And we really aren't, technically. But what about taxes? We're evading the taxes you would otherwise pay."

Mozzie said, "You can't seriously count that as stealing. It's the government! Even the civs know that whatever you can get from the government is fair game!"

"And Peter is a federal agent, I don't think he sees it quite the same way you do. We are stealing the part of the money that belongs to the government. So," Neal thought for a moment, "what if we drop off a check to the IRS making up the money? So we aren't stealing anything?"

Mozzie's voice rose with indignation, "Neal, I haven't let the system get a penny from me since I was born, and I'm not starting now! No way is my island fund going to Uncle Sam's attempts to cover up the fact that it was their secret weapons test that cause the Haiti earthquake!"

Neal said weakly, "But…Peter…"

"Fine, I'll donate an equivalent amount of money to charity. Charitable donations are tax-deductible."

This was close enough to legal for Neal. "Thanks, Mozzie."

"Does the Society to Uncover the Truth about JFK's Assassination count as a charity?"

"I really don't see why not. I've deducted stranger things from my tax returns."

"Neal, your tax returns were such works of art, it is a shame that they're sitting in some secret IRS vault where no one can appreciate them."

"The IRS has secret vaults?"

"Where else would the New World Order keep their secret gold supply?"

* * *

Time—D-day

A boring day for the pierced girl sitting behind the desk suddenly became a lot more interesting when a stooped old lady hobbled in and declared, "I have a winning lottery ticket!"

She sat up, cynicism warring with a desire for anything interesting to happen. "Let me check your numbers."

A few seconds later she was even more interested. "I'll need to see your ID." She waved the security guard inside just in case. "And we'll be calling the press down to witness this moment." She reached for her phone.

Within matter of seconds the press had arrived, sporting microphones, vans, and business cards. Neal remained on the corner of 11th to fake a blocked road in case any real press got curious. One-eyed Sal winked at him as she went past, and Neal sighed—he'd asked her to use a glass eye but the only concession she'd made had been to take the skull and crossbones off her eye patch. Ah, well, someone with her expertise in computer hacking could be forgiven a few eccentricities.

Still, by and large the gathering of every conman, forger, and middleman in New York was good enough at disguise to look more respectable than the average crowd of random citizens.

Then Neal took a reached into the envelope to pull out one of his "Out of Service" road signs, and his heart stopped.

Inside his envelope was also supposed to be a newspaper detailing the winning lottery ticket, in order to fool those in the office into thinking the reporting had been genuine. Instead, inside was an envelope full of pictures of smiling grandchildren and cats.

That meant that Mozzie was holding an envelope with newspapers dated for next week. If he pulled those out then he might have a hard time explaining why his rags-to-riches story had already been written.

Neal hastily took out the "Out of Service" sign, posted it on the road, and took off in a run.

Only to be dragged to a halt by a very loud horn behind him. He made the mistake of looking back, and a very annoyed Sarah was poking her head out her car window. "Neal? That is you, isn't it!"

Unhappily, Neal said, "It would be great to see you, under other circumstances, but right now I really have to run."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Not while you're blocking the road and making me late for work, you don't. Look, I've decided to put you and your monkey business out of my life. I just want to know if I can drive around that sign and keep going, or if I'll drive over a landmine."

"You can go around, actually. Or you could do me an enormous favor and stay here and let me know if you see any press vans coming."

"No."

"Then it was nice seeing you!"

"Neal, just tell me why you're doing this. Even though just yesterday you left me a message telling me that you were sincere about going straight this time."

"You listened? You wouldn't pick up the phone so I wasn't sure."

"Never mind that, just give me a straight answer."

"I am going straight. This for Mozzie. He needs my help. And it's not what you think either, it's...personal life problems."

"What's that supposed to mean?" the insurance agent asked skeptically.

"Such as, I'm helping him retrieve something that he lost. That doesn't belong to anyone else either. It's delicate. And I really need to get these personal items of a family nature to him quickly."

"This is about his family? Mozzie has a family?"

"Not as such, no. Think the next most important thing you can think of."

"Girl problems?"

Neal considered this. If a certain plastic Hawaiian doll counted as a "girl" then yes, Mozzie had girl problems. And honesty* was Neal's new policy!

"Yes. Yes, he does."

"You're stealing a painting of a girl or something similarly stupid."

Damn, Sarah was _good_. "No, it's not like that. Say I promise that I'm not stealing anything, it's all his rightful property, and it's just we can't claim it the normal way. I give you my word."

"And this would get you in trouble, wouldn't it." It wasn't a question.

"It would. But I have to help him with this. I owe him, going back a long time ago."

Sarah stuck her arm back in the car and pulled something from her purse. "Here. This is my boss' business card. You'd be amazed by the places you can get into when you're in insurance. And if you get caught, you didn't get this from me."

Neal caught the card as she tossed it. "Thanks, Sarah, I owe you one. In fact, why don't I make it up to you tomorrow night? I'll take you out for dinner. Pick you up at seven, your place! You're going to love this little Japanese restaurant!"

With that, Neal took off at top speed, hopping the guard rail to short-cut under the bridge for the fastest route back. He needed speed, after all. That was why he left far too fast to make out what Sarah said in response. So, if he showed up at her place tomorrow then it would be because he sincerely hadn't heard anything telling him that he shouldn't be there.** And if he turned off his civilian cell phone, then he wouldn't catch any messages from her that might conflict that story.*** Two could play that game, after all.

Back at the office, he'd slicked back his hair and played the smarmy insurance agent long enough to poke the right folder against Mozzie's back. Luckily, even when in a pink dress with a fake hunchback, his old partner was quite quick on the uptake, and could do the folder-swap in his sleep.

Neal disappeared under a crowd of reporters who were acting a little too into their role in his opinion. Just one more important step remaining.

_*Just the fact that there is an asterisk next to the word honesty says all that is needed to be said._

_**Neal's policy was that it was better to seek forgiveness than to ask permission. He didn't see any conflict at all between this and his new honesty policy._

_***Neal had two cell phones, one which received calls from the respectable citizens in his life and one for everyone else. This had become a necessary accessory ever since a regrettable incident when Peter had answered his phone._

* * *

Claiming the lottery took a long time. A long enough time that even the best fake documentation could be uncovered, real reporters couldn't be avoided, and taxes were inevitable.

But the perfect crime was one that hadn't taken place at all. And nothing was easier than breaking into an office you'd already been in. A few key strokes later, and Lee-Ann Zomiez* had claimed the lottery a full year ago. The money in her pot had been collected a year ago. Nothing was missing and lottery tickets and winners alike were accounted for. And the money had been transferred through enough different bank accounts that it wouldn't matter if someone did notice at this point—except that it would offend both of their professional prides and make a liar out of Neal.

Neal bid Mozzie farewell at the international airport. Even he didn't know the final destination of Mozzie's plane ticket. It was for the best that way.

_*Mozzie had a fondness for plays on words. Neal was flattered that they were a team to the end. The trick is to delete the excess letters._

* * *

But one more point remains to be settled.

Tuesday morning, FBI New York office, white collar division:

Standing in the middle of the FBI's office and waving a white envelope in the air, Diana proclaimed, "If this is someone's idea of a joke, you had better tell me _right now_. Christie is thrilled to bits and it will only get worse if I have to break the bad news to her later."

Jones asked, "What is that?"

Diana looked deeply disgusted. "_That _is two diamond encrusted engagement rings, and two simple and elegant wedding rings. In an envelope stuck in our mailbox with a note 'From a friend and supporter of rebellion against government oppression.' When did my perfectly legal marriage become a rebellion against government oppression? Look, seriously, if these came out of an evidence locker somewhere and I have to send them back then Christie is going to be pissed…"

"Be glad you didn't get a letter detailing the secret agents of the Catholic Inquisition and Prop 8," Neal muttered under his breath.

Jones snagged the envelope and examined the contents. "My, those are beautiful. Those engravings on the gold ring are made of platinum—these might be worth almost as much as the diamonds. Nope, they didn't come from anyone here, we don't make enough. Although I did receive a nice bonus recently."

"What?"

Jones nodded. "I am the proud owner of a new boat. And set of about twenty very nice fishing rods, although I have been fine with only the Setyr."

"Well, if anyone had asked my expert opinion," Neal sighed.

Jones raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

Neal resumed sitting at his desk looking innocent.

Peter tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Neal jumped a foot into the air.

"Guilty conscience bad for your heart?" Peter asked sardonically.

"Ah, Peter, is there anything I should feel guilty for?"

"Yesterday Elizabeth and I received a letter from a cruise liner informing us that someone had pre-paid our way through three different cruises at our choice of destination and timing."

Neal said, "I suggest you see Alaska. I know that Elizabeth has always wanted to go to the Caribbean, and it is lovely there, but the glaciers in Alaska are disappearing. Global warming."

"I furthermore got a note in an unmarked white envelope with coupons to ten different restaurants around the city. There was also a note in cut-out newspaper giving me the tip to solving a series of jewelry robberies that left one woman dead—a case which wasn't actually in my jurisdiction."*

"But you can still solve the case, right? There aren't any rules about that?"

"I passed it to the relevant people in homicide. By the way, I stopped by June's place this morning, and she has someone doing renovations to her house."**

"And I should be feeling guilty about this?"

Peter frowned. "You tell me."

"I didn't lie to you, Peter. I didn't steal anything. The worst I did was steal someone's news story. This time, I was actually returning what belonged to its rightful owner."

Peter leaned close enough that his words were private. "And I'm going to get any calls from people claiming otherwise?"

"No way. We-" Neal stopped himself from saying 'we got away with it.' "We made a fair transaction. Honestly, this should be on the plus side at my parole hearing."

Peter straightened and sighed. "This is not a plus for your parole hearing, Neal."

"But do you believe me?" Neal asked.

"I believe you. Just this once."

Just this once was good enough. In fact, if felt great.

_*Peter's envelope also included a note complaining about how he didn't pay enough attention to his wife, which up until bit about the underground jewelry auction had led him to suspect his father-in-law._

_**Neal had received a text from June a few hours ago saying that both of her neighbors had accepted a buy-out at twice the market value of their houses—and that he would soon have two bedrooms and his own study. She had been very receptive to his plans for a secret room, too.*** June was planning on taking a cruise of her own until some of the building was complete. Neal wondered if there was any chance at all of Peter letting him stay over. No? He'd be willing to walk the dog._

_***Neal wasn't even planning on hiding anything in the secret room. He'd just always wanted one._

* * *

Neal thought he knew what to expect when he got home—the appraisers outside and the celebration cake on the table was no surprise. Yet even so, he was not expecting the painting that Keller had broken over his head a week ago to now be hanging on his wall. He touched it. There wasn't even a line where it had been snapped in two.

Under the frame was an envelope fastened on the wall with a piece of tape. Tacked onto the outside was a sticky-note saying, "Inside are genuine and legal bills of sale and restoration. Hang on your wall and let the Suit see it without fear."

On the bottle of the table was a 1961 Château Petrus. Neal smiled when he remembered the last time they'd shared one of those—someone was feeling sentimental.

Sitting under the bottle of wine was a manila envelope with the words "Just in case" written across it in red ink. Inside Neal found a thick stack of hundred dollar bills and mixed smaller cash, along with a passport and driver's license with name and picture left to be filled in. Well, perhaps he'd have something to keep in his secret room after all.

But the best present of all was the tiny note at the bottom of the envelope saying, "P.S. Bonsai in the 10th street hideout need to be watered twice a week. Also please keep my five hundred and sixty NY voter registration cards updated for the next election."

Mozzie would be coming back to New York.


End file.
